User blog comment:Biggren/The Northern March Original/@comment-3135907-20190617022808

@Bartleby @Bluester The scene froze, took a deep breath. The simple searat pulled his boots back on and adjusted his broad belt. The breath released and all broke out in chaos as searats tore from the opposite side of the shallow ford, boots and callused footpaws splashing heavily into the stream as they charged into the Painted Ones like a pack of wolves set loose on sheep. Feffle pushed Grimear to the side as the horde of weathered butchers slaughtered the painted foe all around. Dazzi flashed Serrano an elated grin and turned on the Painted Ones, slaying left and right in her own little payback, shouting out the names of her fallen comrades as she did. And there, above the whole scene, unmoving, a dark and brindled searat, bigger and meaner than all the rest, stood watching, balancing an empty crossbow over his shoulder. He didn't say a word.